The Thirteenth Magician

by Patrick Welch

  He steered his craft that way. The bird laughed a warning at his approach. Finally, in disgust, it ripped away one more morsel and flew off. Once Daasek recognized what the bird had found, he wished he could do the same.

  It was part of a gunwale. Still attached, still grasping for salvation, was a severed arm. That was what had attracted the seamocker. Daasek swung his craft violently away. He did not want to know, did not want to guess, who had become another victim of the Great Sail. He whispered a prayer to Phann as he steadfastly sailed from the wreckage. He dare not even allow himself one look back.

  That night he dreamed of his father being consumed by a flock of seamockers. He did not sleep very long.

  * * * *

  There was a slight thwickk as the blade struck sharply into the mast. Daasek smiled as he removed the knife. Right in the center of the small gnarl. Since his misfortunes with the seamocker, he had vowed never again to miss with his dagger. Now he spent several hours a day at practice, using every delivery possible at every conceivable available target. There wasn't one bare piece of wood aboard that didn't bear the scars of his mania. Normally the Guild knife was used for cutting rope and gutting fish. At an early age, Daasek had found knives useful for hunting as well. In the short Horean winters, he had spent many hours in blinds, waiting patiently for frost hares to venture out of thickets. Others had preferred the bow, but he had found the knife more useful. For one, the hares were less likely to run long distances with a knife in them rather than an arrow. For another, a simple steel hunting knife was less expensive and more readily replaceable. That was an important consideration if Iofhee was not smiling upon your efforts that day.

  * * * *

  Daasek stepped back near the helm and sighted another target. This time he would throw underhand, he decided. But an unexpected wave hit just as he flicked his wrist. He cursed as he tripped and watched the knife miss by inches and sail into the sea. It had been his first miss that day.

  He dropped the warback cape and dove in. A refreshing dip in the cooling fresh water was always welcome on a hot day. And summer was full-blown now, two months since the Great Sail had begun. He swam out quickly and reached for his knife.

  And screamed as a searing flame struck his chest.

  He gasped, choking and fighting for breath. It was the first time he had felt the call of the warback in weeks. But never as strongly as this. And this time the burning didn't cease.

  He clambered aboard his ship and collapsed on the bottom. He pulled the heartstone away from his chest with a trembling hand. Beneath, where the stone had lain, was an angry red blister. He clasped the stone and felt the warmth remain. The creature had not vanished this time, had not teased him with unfulfilled promise. It was waiting, somewhere. And now the time of his waiting was nearly complete.

  Daasek steered east, following the heat of the stone. He gripped it strongly, willing it once again to flare into fire. But it did not. Slight heat persisted, but it refused to intensify as the minutes grew into hours and Daasek searched the sea for the sight of spines shattering the surface. “Coward you are, creature. May Karmela sleep with you through eternity,” he screamed more than once in his frustration. Yet the stone only mocked him with tepid heat. And finally the stone went cold in his grasp.

  Daasek collapsed in the bottom of his boat, flinging the stone away. So many weeks, and now it seemed his voyage had just begun. Chasing a warback, he thought and shook his head. The concept was nonsensical. Even with the strongest winds, no craft could catch a warback, which did not wish to be caught. He retrieved the stone and balanced on the gently rolling gunwale. “You need this as badly as I,” he screamed, shaking his fist at the waves. He challenged the sea with an angry stare, then climbed back into his ship. “No more games,” he screamed once more. “You now come for me.” As if in answer, the stone flared in his hand. “So you feel insulted, do you?” He laughed to himself. “Then perhaps our playing is at an end.”

  He went to the front of his craft and pulled back a small tarp. Below lay three harpoons, each poisoned with the Love of Karmela. One, well-placed, would be sufficient. He hoisted the first in his hand. He had spent hours making each, sanding and smoothing them, adding weights to achieve the proper throwing balance. He was confident his recent practice with the dagger would be beneficial for the harpoon as well. Now he merely had to wait.

  The spiked fin of the warback broke the surface first, but still too far away to risk a throw. Daasek felt the stone begin to warm uncomfortably in his hand. He transferred it to a pocket in his vest, then returned his attention to the sea.

  Surprisingly, the warback continued its leisurely pace. Lore claimed that the heat of the heartstone drove them into a frenzy during the final confrontation. Perhaps, Daasek thought, this one was exhausted from its long swim. After all these weeks in fruitless pursuit, it would be only fair if his conquering of the sea beast was to be an easy one. Let the others tell tales of miraculous hunts around the wine flasks. Capturing the heartstone was reward enough.

  The head of the great beast finally appeared. Daasek guessed it to be about eight kines long, smaller than his craft and even small for adolescent warbacks. “Runt of the litter,” he snorted, then laughed. He wasn't overly tall himself. Only appropriate, he decided.

  Daasek hefted the harpoon tentatively. His boat was drifting closer now. A bit nearer and he could risk a throw. Perhaps his warback was abnormally stupid besides, because it still paid no interest in him. He wondered if that was a bad omen, then shrugged the thought away. It was time.

  The harpoon cut the air in a gentle arc, then buried itself behind the second spine. The warback convulsed. It stared at him as if confused and insulted. Then it let out a great roar and sounded.

  Daasek unfurled his small sail, then leapt to the helm and steered after. The poison would be working through the warback's system, slowly paralyzing it. His throw had been fortunate. He had pierced one of the great lungs, and that prevented the dying beast from diving to the bottom. The end of his harpoon remained above water, and he followed it easily. So simple, he thought. Perhaps those stories about the Great Sail he had enjoyed while a boy were gross exaggerations. But he merely had to recall his father's handicap to realize that wasn't the truth for all.

  The warback surfaced again. But this time its movements were much slower. Its great tail twitched spasmodically, its deadly jaws only trembled. Daasek waited. After all this time, he would drift safely afar until he was certain the creature was dead. The warback shuddered once, then gave out one more roar. Now it floated completely on the surface, unmoving. Daasek smiled and reached in his pocket. The heartstone was his.

  The stone nearly singed his fingers. Just as his boat was struck broadside, he realized what had happened. The heartstone cools at the death of the warback. His had not.

  He had slain the wrong warback.

  His grip on the tiller saved him from going overboard. The warback, his warback, struck on the port side, near the bow. It lifted its head and shook once. Daasek could do nothing but hold on and stare at the great beast. This was one worthy of the chase, longer than his ship and at least as wide. The eyes were red with the fire of the heartstone and it looked at him with fearsome intelligence. Then it dove, allowing the boat to crash upon its back.

  Daasek froze as he saw the mast crack near the base. If given time, he could lash it down. He wasn't given time. The warback struck again, coming up almost directly underneath. One long spine rose through the hull, just missing him. He fell back as the boat once again entered the water. He couldn't worry about the mast now. He had to repair the hole before his damaged craft sank.

  The mast could not stand the buffeting. The spar seemed to groan, then slowly tilted sideways, grandly, drunkenly falling into the sea. Daasek didn't have time to curse his fortune. The hole left by the warback's spine was circular. He took a piece of wood from the remains of the mast and forced it in. Water still leaked in, but it posed no immediate danger. La
ter he would seal it with tar and clamshell paste. If there was a later.

  The warback had paused for a moment. Maybe, he thought hopefully, the attack had hurt it as much as my boat. He inventoried the damage. Water washed around his ankles and continued to deepen. His mast was gone. His small stove and many other items were scattered about the bottom.

  Then he looked to the bow and realized the true damage. The covering tarp remained but the harpoons did not. He had had no time to secure them between his assault on the first warback and the appearance of the second. Now they, too, were gone, pitched from the boat during the attack.

  He looked out to sea. The water boiled, and then the great head of the warback arose. But it didn't attack. It just rested, staring at him in silent challenge. As if knowing Daasek was helpless and could be destroyed at its leisure.

  Something wrapped itself gently around his foot. He looked down and saw his small fishing net, used to capture grickle and fan fish for meals at sea. Much too small for a warback. But it gave him an idea. He retrieved the strong netting. He had his knife. He had a plan. Now it was up to the warback.

  The warback continued to watch. Resting, recovering perhaps? Daasek wondered. The creature could afford to wait. Water continued to enter his boat, slowly but steadily. Daasek had to force the creature to attack. He pulled out the heartstone. It remained red and fiery to the touch. He held it by the small chain and brandished it over his head. “Coward,” he yelled. “Are you afraid to regain what was once yours?”

  The warback snorted, then roused itself. It began to undulate towards him, first slowly, then with increasing speed. Daasek gripped the net loosely. This would have to be the most accurate cast of his life.

  The beast was at full-speed now, heading straight for his boat. Daasek braced himself for the impact, but at just a few kines distance, the creature suddenly dove. Daasek didn't hesitate. He waded to the other side. The warback was going to attack from underneath. With one hand Daasek gripped the gunwale, with the other he held the net. Waiting.

  Even prepared, the impact almost pitched him from the craft. The warback exploded from the water directly in front of him, its sharp spines splintering wood along the side of the boat. With a practiced flick of his wrist, Daasek cast the net high and far. The net spread, then dropped straight over several dorsal spines of the warback. Startled by the attack, the creature dallied on the surface. Daasek only had seconds. He stood on the gunwale and jumped. He had to land at the side of the creature; otherwise he could impale himself on one of its razor spines.

  He hit the creature solidly. Before the warback could turn towards him, he managed to grab the net and pull himself out of the water. The material tore in several places, but it slid down over one spine and held solidly. Quickly Daasek drew his knife. Beneath each spine was an air chamber. He drove the knife down, penetrating the scaly skin and the sac below.

  The warback panicked. Angry, alarmed and confused, it bellowed, then sounded. Daasek took a deep breath and wrapped his hand in the netting. The only way the warback could dismount him now would be to tear his hand completely off.

  Daasek was buffeted by the currents as the warback streaked underwater. The creature was too large and the spines too dangerous for him to grip it with his legs. It was the speed of the beast itself that keep him near it. He couldn't see. Instead, he reached out with his knife hand and slowly twisted the blade into its side. The creature shook itself, and the pressure nearly tore Daasek's arm from its socket. But Daasek hung on. He had no choice.

  How long could the creature stay submerged? Daasek knew he could stay below for over five minutes, a talent honed from years of clam-catching in the rivers and shallow bays around Myniah. Warbacks were reputed to remain underwater for up to twenty, but this one had dived quickly. Moreover, one of its air sacs was destroyed. Daasek released his breath slowly, trying to lessen the pressure in his lungs. He continued to stab at the great creature blindly, but he had no idea if he was causing any damage. Still the warback swam on.

  His ears began to pound unmercifully, as did the pressure in his chest. Torrid pain flooded through his left shoulder and he reflexively tried to release the netting. But his wrist was too firmly wrapped within it. He opened his eyes but couldn't see anything save stars and blackness. I've stood worse than this, he tried to convince himself. I can stay under longer than this. He reached out and stabbed with the blade one more time. He felt a rush of air bubbles flow past his hand. He had struck by another spine, into another air sac. Was the creature slowing, was the creature rising? He reopened his eyes. Even with his hazy vision he was sure the water was getting lighter. They had to be heading up. Up to the surface. Up to air. They had to be.

  The warback broke the surface, bellowing with rage and pain. Daasek hung on, gasping. If the creature dove again, he knew he wouldn't survive.

  But the warback was as exhausted as he. It tried to turn its head and grasp him, but the pain from its damaged side and lungs distracted it. Daasek struck it once again. The creature roared, then suddenly changed direction and began heading purposefully forward.

  Daasek looked up and saw, several hundred kines away, the wreckage that was his ship. He is going to use my own boat to kill me.

  Daasek drove his knife into the creature's back and pulled himself forward. The creature shuddered, but maintained its charge. Daasek pulled out the knife, drove it in again, pulled himself still farther. There was a plate just above and behind the eyes. If he could reach that, he could stab the creature directly in the brain.

  He tried briefly to free himself from the net, but he was firmly entangled. He didn't have time to cut himself free. He stabbed again, behind the first dorsal fin. The creature roared as another air sac was pierced, and it slowed momentarily. Daasek stabbed behind the left ear. The creature nearly jumped out of the water, arcing its back as if a horse trying to unseat a rider. But Daasek had remained knotted in the strong netting. He couldn't be thrown off. He stabbed again. Into the plate behind the warback's eyes.

  The creature shuddered. Once. Blood and ochre erupted from its gaping jaws. Its tail thrashed against the water, then slowed, then stopped. The creature floated, silent and still.

  Daasek didn't have much time. Still he sawed through the netting as carefully as possible, gritting his teeth from the pain of his shoulder. He had to save as much of it as he could, otherwise he would find it impossible to feed himself.

  He wrapped the net in the belt at his waist, then cut away one of the warback's dorsal spines. He would use it to make his own Guild knife. Now only one task remained.

  He pulled the upper jaw back carefully. The warback's teeth were fine, plentiful—and razor sharp. He jumped into the water and swam up next to the beast. At the base of the tongue it lay—the other half of the heartstone he had owned since childhood. Very carefully he dug it out with his knife. Very carefully he matched it to the stone still resting in his vest pocket. Both stones were red now, and they fit together perfectly. Very slowly and painfully he swam to his craft, now a mere 20 kines away.

  * * * *

  Everything after was a shadow. He remembered sealing the hole. He remembered treating his cuts and damaged arm. He remembered bailing out some of the water. He didn't remember his collapse. Lying adrift in sea and fever. Awakening long enough to force down soggy kelp biscuits and shore leaf and queen's breath.

  When he awoke four days later, the fever was gone and his shoulder offered only a dull throb ... easily drowned by the fire of hunger in his stomach.

  His first concern was food. His craft had long since drifted far away from the slain warback. Any meal would have to be freshly caught. Fortunately, he had not lost his net during his delirium. He spent several hours reweaving the lacework until he was satisfied. His stove, although damaged, had not been lost, and neither had his small supply of fuel. Several hours of effort netted three grickle—admirable fishing under the circumstances, he thought wryly—which he washed down with a finger of wine an
d the last of the kelp biscuits.

  Satisfied, at least for the nonce, he sat in his partially-bailed craft and studied the heartstone. Now smooth and blood red, it showed no signs it had ever been two. He found it difficult to believe the battle he had survived achieving it. Yet the Great Sail would not be over until he had safely returned to Myniah.

  His satchel was nearly depleted of supplies, but an important one remained. He removed a poultice, carefully wrapped in oilskin. To ensure protection, the heartstone had to be worn at all times. A chain, a bracelet would not suffice. He took his knife and carefully cut a semi-circle over his heart, above the nipple. He gritted his teeth as he peeled the skin back and inserted the heartstone, then carefully placed the poultice over the wound. The mixture of herbs would hasten the healing. Only a small scar would remain. A small price for possession of a heartstone.

  He looked at the warback's dorsal fin. He had had no chance to recover one of the small air sacs. He could never fashion a true fisherman's knife. But at least he had proof of his prowess. He wrapped it in a piece of oilskin and secured it at the bow of his craft. Finally, he looked at his boat. The mast was gone, the bottom was still awash. But at least the craft was no longer leaking. And his oars had not been lost.

  He removed the tiller from the water and inserted the oars in their locks. The currents, at least, ran south to Myniah. He would row at night, steering by the stars, and sleep in the day. It mattered not if he ventured across another vessel. He could not accept their aid anyway. He had no idea where he was or how long it would take, but he would find his way home. He started to sing a fisherman's song as he began to row.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Three: The Eighth Magician

  Daasek lay back against the tree and sighed, momentarily content. Nearby, his small fire smoldered, consuming the remains of his dinner. His mount nickered softly, then returned to grazing. Daasek ignored him. His steed deserved a rest. So did he.